


the service industry

by casualbird



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, No Spoilers, Oral Sex, Post-Blue Lions Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Post-Canon, Praise Kink, Quiet Sex, Trans Male Character, annoyance/comfort, if you will, less hurt/comfort than inconveniece/comfort, or an attempt at quiet sex, two of them. my city now.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:15:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24115633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casualbird/pseuds/casualbird
Summary: "Wanna be better. Wanna beat the spit out of that guy. Wanna take care of you."If Caspar was made to make a list of his very favorite things... Ashe's sleepy little laugh would be somewhere in the top ten. Top five. Topthree.Whatever. It's good, so good.Caspar can't handle the way a certain guest at Ashe's inn talks down to him. When an opportunity arises to piss the guy off and treat Ashe with every bit of the reverence he deserves, Caspar jumps for it.
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez/Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert
Comments: 7
Kudos: 63





	the service industry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aurnion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurnion/gifts).



> ashe and caspar are both trans in this! there's a teeny tiny bit of Boob Touch, and i use the term cock and clit interchangeably. hope this is alright by you!

The Right Honorable Lord What's-His-Nuts, Baron of Whateversboro, that's his title. And sure, Caspar remembers how to bow and scrape and say 'you got it, milord!' Remembers the way these people typically narrow their eyes at him when they see his mussed-up hair, when they hear him say _you got it._

It's the kind of thing he was born into.

Caspar, by this point, has gotten really fucking good at blowing off the things he was born into. He spit out that silver spoon years ago, left his coffers and his corsets and his full Seirosian name, and is quite pleased to be living at Ashe's little inn, in the shade of the grand wall at Fhirdiad.

He can't, however, blow off Lord Prissy-Name, Baron of Who-Gives-A-Shit, Great Kicker of Rocks. The finicky little bastard is, after all, a paying guest.

Ashe had _sparkled_ when he'd gotten the letter, had held the paper as delicately as he would a firstborn, told his companion with a shiver in his voice that they were about to host some regal company. Kept sparkling for the fortnight thereafter--tidying, dusting, polishing, laying out fresh rushes if anyone so much as looked at them askance. Cooked until he'd nearly boiled _himself_ with the exertion, puzzled over menus, wine pairings like equations deep into the night.

So Caspar did his best to drag his Ashe's ass to bed before dawn, to rub his feet when he was tired, tear him kicking and screaming into the fresh air if he had to. He was just the cutest thing, like this, running headlong for the life he wanted. Caspar could barely _stand_ it.

It was also a part of caring for Ashe to go to his knees for him whenever he could. After all, he more than deserved it. That the sight of Ashe in a stain-splotched apron had always done more for Caspar than he could really comprehend was just a bonus.

"Baby," he kept on murmuring, as Ashe coiled up their silk-sleek ropes, slipped in between the sheets, notched their bodies close together. "You're the best, you're fuckin' great, fancy bastard's gonna love you."

There was a reason Caspar became a city guardsman after the war, rather than a soothsayer.

Lord Mean-To-Those-In-The-Service-Industry turned out to be... just that. He questioned everything, found fault in each minuscule decision. When they saw him up to his room, the first thing he'd done was slide a gloved fingertip along the footboard of the bed, held it to the light to scrutinize for dust.

He didn't find any, because Ashe was a deeply savvy innkeeper, but Caspar saw the way his love's satisfaction crumpled, and seethed with it.

The baron griped about the timing of his wake-up call, the temperature and blend of his tea. The way the building creaked at night, the sounds of stray dogs, of men carousing in the streets.

"Oh," Caspar growled, in a precious moment out of the bastard's sight, "I could just smack him one, Ashe, for fuck's sake!"

But Ashe only shook his head, mustered up a wan smile. "Thank you, Caspar, for the... sentiment. It won't be long."

He was so _poised,_ putting up with him. So measured in his tone, his choice of words, even his movements as he cleared the baron's table, stripped the linens off his bed.

"I dunno how you do it, baby," mumbled Caspar, on the second night. Ashe was hanging onto consciousness by blunted fingernails, had been dozing ever since he'd touched the sheets, but Caspar felt terribly strongly that he needed to hear it. "You're amazing, I can't do enough to help you out!!"

A little grumbling sound, then, that whacked Caspar like a down pillow upside the head. "No, no... y'did the dishes..."

True. He'd made those dishes fucking _glow,_ not left a spot on them, and he had the sandpapery backs of his hands to show for it.

"Swept, too... n' dusted."

Also true. Caspar armored himself with a gingham apron, a kerchief over his mouth and nose, a tattered rag. Made total war upon the very concept of uncleanliness, the ever-creeping armies of dust and tracked mud. Won--though not a flawless victory. Still, Ashe had only laughed when he'd shown him the tchotchkes he'd shattered in the wrack of battle-rage.

"You're good to me," Ashe murmurs, after so long a pause Caspar is half-convinced he's fallen asleep. He shifts, then, clutches Ashe closer to his chest, slots a broad arm into the slightness of his waist.

"Wanna be better. Wanna beat the spit out of that guy. Wanna take care of you."

If Caspar was made to make a list of his very favorite things... Ashe's sleepy little laugh would be somewhere in the top ten. Top five. Top _three._ Whatever. It's good, so good.

"Mm... you do, Cas, you know that."

"No, I mean like... you're sleepy, and Sir Dillhole is in the next room, but when he leaves? Maybe the next night after that, baby, 'cause you'll need your rest, but I wanna... you know. Make you feel good. Be good for you like you deserve."

That laugh again. "Y're sweet, Cas." Ashe shuffles, nuzzles closer to him, and Caspar feels nothing but Ashe's chapped skin, his nightshirt, the slow swell of his lungs.

Smells nothing but him--like flour, wood polish, lavender soap.

"Always such a good boy..." Ashe croons to him, barely above a whisper. Secret, scarcely audible at all.

It isn't the time for Caspar's thighs to tense, for his cheeks and chest and clit to heat through like a tea towel around a hot compress. So he sighs, does his very damnedest to shake it off without moving, without jostling Ashe.

Slept.

In the morning, it's clear that it's going to be rather more difficult to keep on _shaking it off._ Ashe is always lovely when he first rises, with hair flat on one side, sleepy-soft skin that smells like their sheets, like himself, like Caspar. And then he gets up, dresses, fixes his hair, and becomes an entirely different sort of devastating. The cheer about him as he buttons his shirt cuffs, throws open the shutters to taste the brisk dawn air--always so ready for the day.

Even now, with Sir Stupidhead waiting on his wake-up call, which would inevitably be 'wrong.' And his breakfast, and directions to wherever it was he was going--all of it.

There is a temerity to him, now, a set in his delicate jaw that he'd never had had when first they opened this place. Caspar's teeth nip at ragged fingernails.

"You'll do great," he tells him, "a bang-up job. Don't let anyone tell you different!"

And then, even though he'd swear he'd been trying to contain it, "and you're sexy as all fuck, no matter what!"

"Aren't you sweet?" Ashe giggles, kissing his temple. Turns, straightens, marches off as if on campaign.

For the rest of the day, he is _just_ irresistible. The way he grips the handles of the tea tray, the steadying of his stance as he whips away at a mixing bowl.

Caspar stops him, then, to kiss a little flour off the corner of his mouth, because there's no way he can help it.

He's beautiful. He's beautiful when he beats the rugs, aerates the wine, when he purses his lips and looks _this close_ to being entirely finished with their vaunted guest's kvetching.

He is the most beautiful Caspar has ever seen him when he flops onto their bed late that night, still damp from the bath, forearm lying askance over his eyes. Well, inasmuch as he doesn't top himself on that front every single day, but. _Details._ Caspar is only a details man for the freckles dappling Ashe's collarbones, the wet sheen of the scars on his chest. He's laughing, slack-mouthed and breathy, shaking under the weight of all the day's nonsense.

"I'm gonna... I'm gonna rough him up," says Caspar, as quietly as he can manage. "I'm gonna break his prissy little nose, I fuckin' swear, nobody talks to my baby that way."

"I don't even know why it's so funny," Ashe murmurs, though it must be--Caspar kisses a tear away from the corner of his eye. "It's like he's from a storybook or something. Like any minute he's about to lock a princess in a tower."

Caspar laughs at that, perhaps a little too loudly for how close he is to Ashe's ear. "Nah, I think he's the dragon. The really snotty one, from that book you read me? About Galatea?"

Ashe rolls, muffling a snort in the crook of Caspar's shoulder. "That's so mean," he hisses, "but you're right, you're right! Goddess, it's been so long since I've read that one."

"Maybe once he leaves, you could read it to me again?" Of course, Ashe hadn't said anything about wanting to read it _aloud,_ but lying like that, head in Ashe's lap, slender fingers in his hair, drifting on the soft cadence of his voice? Feeling Ashe's pulse pique at the scary parts? Bliss.

"Absolutely. As soon as he's out the door," Ashe promises, and shuffles, arranges so they're lying chest-to-chest, skin-to-skin. He's warm from the bath, scrubbed soft, smelling of soap, and it's all so lovely that Caspar can't help but blurt out his _yesssss!_

"Hush, Cas, don't wake him." Caspar bites his tongue, but Ashe's eyes are soft--there's not a drop of reproach in his veins.

And he really is beautiful.

Caspar is never one to pass up an opportunity to push his luck--so he smirks, stammers just a little on the line "t-then how 'bout you shut me up?"

It's a terrible line, but Ashe only sighs, only rolls his eyes a very little bit. Kisses him, soft slender lips parted, and Caspar shivers. Squirms into it, closer and closer until Ashe's silky hair is half-tangled with his own, until he's slipped one shin between Ashe's knees, splayed hands across his back.

There's no keeping back a whine when the long elegant line of Ashe's hand forms to his jaw, strokes over Caspar's sunburnt, deep-dimpled cheek.

"Hush," Ashe mumbles, so close his lips catch on Caspar's own, and he knows, he _knows_ he's got to be good now more than ever, but all the same it draws another noise from him, crackling in his throat.

There's probably something he could say in his defense, something like 'you're so sexy' or 'you feel perfect' or 'I just can't help it, baby,' but even Caspar can see how that'd defeat the purpose, and he hasn't really got the patience for it anyway. He kisses Ashe again, with all the same force, the same gusto with which he does anything, and surges with pride when Ashe muffles a little sigh.

He's on the back foot again in the next breath, though, when that hand trails down from his cheek over his shoulder, his muscled ribs, fingertips tracing the little swell of his breast. He's delicate, slow, but it's no less intense for the gentility, and this is something Ashe knows well. As ever, Caspar bucks, thrashes, barrels back from the kiss to clamp his teeth around a moan.

"Not fair," he whimpers, "baby, not fair! If I gotta be quiet..."

Ashe's laughter is featherlight, unbearably soft, and Caspar aches like a pressed bruise to hear it. "Sorry," he murmurs, and sounds far too sincere.

Caspar's barely finished puzzling out the words, stammering out a quick ''s okay' before he stops short with the feel of Ashe's palm covering his breast, hot shivering breath in his mouth.

"Would you like if I, uh. Made it easier for you?" An eyetooth dents Ashe's lower lip, uncertain, but Caspar is utterly transfixed.

"Would you--if you used your mouth, Cas, could you be quieter?"

Caspar, who swears on all the saints his mouth is watering, shrugs. "One way to find out!" he sings, no less cheerful for the softness of it.

A kiss, then, and he feels Ashe laughing into it. "I've really got to figure out how to resist you," says Ashe, and it feels like winning a brawl. "But really--if you can't be quiet, we'll have to stop, so... behave yourself. I--I mean it."

His mouth really _is_ watering, then. Caspar bursts for him, kissing him firmly, heavily in thanks. And though his gratitude for Ashe is always breathless, breadthless--there's really no dragging it out. A few seconds and Caspar's bounding down his body, laving him over with wide-mouthed kisses between panting breaths.

Ashe falls languid onto his back, and it's very much Caspar's fault that his chin is in the way of Ashe's thigh as it spreads, near-knocking out his teeth. He muffles his laughter below Ashe's navel, where peacetime has softened him, and once he feels the give of him there doesn't think about it anymore.

"Baby," he mumbles, drags his tongue down that trail of shimmering silver hair, taking in his soft, heady scent. Biting his lip, because as much as he had to be--patient, quiet, good--there really was nothing for it.

Caspar approaches this the same as he does everything: headlong, without stopping to breathe. He parts Ashe's folds on his tongue, sweeping upward, humming at the salt-sharp taste of him. It tickles, apparently--Ashe's hips jump, and Caspar hears the smallest, politest little yelp.

"Sorry," he mumbles, without bothering to pull away, lips brushing over thin slick skin. Ashe only reaches down for him, pets those deft clever fingers through his hair.

He knows, if he's very good, if he drives his sweet Ashe just far enough out of his mind, if he makes just the right amount of puppy eyes... Ashe's fingers will fist, pull taut at the nape of his neck.

And what is Caspar's forte, if not hard work and puppy eyes? He surges up the bed, hooks his arms under Ashe's slender thighs, buries himself as deep as he'll go. Ashe has softened since the war, they both have, and the best, loveliest proof of that is on the insides of Ashe's thighs, blue-veined pale, mottled soft with cellulite. Delicate, but a bit less so when they're clamped about Caspar's ears. He adores them either way.

Adores Ashe's cock, too, swollen tight and firm against the flicking point of his tongue, and Caspar's neck is ready to snap up, some rasp-voiced little sympathy ready in his throat, _poor baby, oh, could've shoved me down here sooner._

At the very last instant, he remembers that it's not in the game. Sighs, a little--it's either that or he's running out of breath--clamps his eyes shut, gets to it.

When they'd first started doing this, nights they'd suspected might be the last, and many others besides--he'd had to wear kid gloves. Hem himself in--Ashe'd never been touched like this, and twinged at every breath against tender skin, every twitch of tongue or teeth. Well. Perhaps the teeth thing had just been that Caspar was bad at it.

But they'd had a lot of practice since then, and now when Caspar rushes on the rapids of it, when he laves and loves until there's slick plastered on his cheeks--Ashe _sings_ with it.

Generally. And even now--if Caspar listens close above the rustle of Ashe's quaking fingers in his hair, his own panting, he swears he can hear something. Muffled, wincing, like every breath is a little glass thing cracking.

Caspar glances up, and though it's difficult to see at the angle, he _shudders_ at the sight of Ashe's teeth needling a knuckle.

And the way Ashe's face brightens when he catches him staring--Caspar doesn't need any speech to hear _that's just it, yes, good boy..._

A cry hammers at the insides of his ribs. He stifles it, merciless, diving deep enough to squash his nose, spear his tongue inside.

He's practiced this bit, honed it the way he might his fighting stance, but as with anything else, there's room for improvisation. Got to keep them guessing, it's the only way. And it _works--_ Ashe bucks into his wide mouth, knocking his teeth, and Caspar thrills with it like busting training-dummy heads, like shouting at the apex of his voice.

And then Ashe's fingers curl, tight and jerky in his hair, and it's _perfect._ The sting, the taste, the adrenalin thrum in him, a deep full-body shiver. His eyes were already trained up, watching Ashe's freckles disappear under his flush, but now there's nothing he can do to keep them from rolling back all the way.

Except it isn't perfect. There's no resting on his laurels, none of that quitter shit--Caspar may have gotten Ashe trembling, throbbing on his tongue, but he's _not_ finished.

Caspar fumbles a little, finagling an arm free from under Ashe's thigh, fingers scrabbling over the soft curve of it. Drags them up, slow, so Ashe isn't surprised, and with a tug on his hair--one for yes--he works one finger inside.

Not forceful, not deep, with only the slightest crook. This, like guarding nose and belly, is precise. Ingrained, below thought.

Just lightly, jockeying to press whole against that weak spot, massaging tight little circles that make his wrist _ache._

Too damn bad, wrist.

Ashe pants, then, and though it can't have been very loud it's got all the jubilance of a tight-packed tavern, a favorite ballad.

Caspar half-laughs, then, all bright satisfaction. Shifts, and without preamble or pretense draws Ashe's cock between his lips and sucks.

There's a sharp sound, then, which Caspar can't place as Ashe's palm clamping full across his mouth, and Ashe spasms, arching half off the bed. His wrist trembles, _twists_ in Caspar's hair, and there's nothing Caspar can do but soldier on, sally forth, or he swears he'll be shouting like the war's won over again. 

He doesn't pull away, doesn't catch his bolting breath until Ashe is long since finished. Beams, then, bright and wide and sloppy, drags a forearm across--across the whole of his face, really. It rather isn't effective, but getting clean is a country mile from the point. That's for later, when Ashe will cradle Caspar's head in his lap, let his face list into the soft swell of his abdomen, dab off the spit, the slick, the drying sweat with a warm washcloth.

At the least, he _hopes_ that's for later--what with the throb between his thighs, the way Ashe smiles at him, slow-blinking, when he finds there wherewithal to sit up on his elbows.

"Good... good _boy,"_ he breathes, on a quavering inhale. Reaches out, tips up Caspar's sticky chin with the ends of his fingers.

Caspar laughs, and it's lucky that he hasn't got the breath in him for more than just a huff. "I do my best."

"You _are_ the best," Ashe murmurs, and it rolls through Caspar like a squall.

There's nothing he can do then but haul up, kiss him hard and long and deep, and if it knocks the wind right back out of them? Oh, is it worth it. Worth it for the give of Ashe's mouth, Ashe's lips lavishing gently against his sore tongue.

Still, Caspar can't find it in him to complain when Ashe draws back--not when he turns, lips grazing the whorl of Caspar's ear and whispers, "would you like your reward, now?"

He nods, so fevered that he nearly knocks their noses, but it wouldn't be the first time. Ashe giggles, reminds him once more to _behave_ himself, to be a _good boy._

"Please--I can do it," he insists, but Ashe only kisses the spot between his brows, tells him that he knows.

Guides him up, with slow, enervated limbs, until he sits in Ashe's lap, against a tender thigh angled just so. It's sweet, it's unbelievable, he half _-keens_ with it--but doesn't. Just shivers at the feel of Ashe's warmth diffusing through soaked fabric, at those wiry arms enfolding him.

"Go on," Ashe murmurs, with a kiss to Caspar's shoulder, and wild horses couldn't stop him after that.

Nor the bed frame's creak, the headboard glancing off the whitewashed wall, the little hissing gasps he can't suppress. _Nothing,_ and this is something that Lord Stick-Up-His-Ass shall simply have to live with.

**Author's Note:**

> hello! god, i love writing caspar so fucking much, he's such fun. i hope you enjoyed--please let me know if you did!!!
> 
> if you feel inclined, come hang out with me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/bird_scribbles) for... pretty much constant fire emblem hornyposting.
> 
> have a good one!


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